


The Grand Duchess

by Bouzingo



Category: Avengers: Earth's Mightiest Heroes, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, F/F, Hydra (Marvel), Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kink Negotiation, Maria Hill is the best damn grand duchess, Psychological Trauma, Red Room, and Natasha Romanov is a butler
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-22 03:53:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3713947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bouzingo/pseuds/Bouzingo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maria requires a new butler for her estate; Natasha Romanov is an odd choice, but the best one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Maria puts her hairpin into her French knot and nods at the mirror. The hairpin was her great-grandmother’s, the last Grand Duchess, and is fit only for those who hold the title.

“Madam, the applicants are in the great hall,” Birgittson says. Maria smiles.

“Thanks, Gunther,” she says. “I’ll be down shortly.”

She loves descending the grand hall, even when she’s wearing a simple pantsuit. It gives her the gravitas that her etiquette teacher told her she lacked when she was little. People are always properly stunned by the effect.

There are only six or seven applicants. Birgittson already weeded out the unacceptable applications, leaving the easy job to Maria. No matter what her choice, she will be left with a competent butler. There are all the people with skills in finance and cooking, credentials in hand to hand combat and protection. Six out of seven look ex-military, wear the butler’s uniform like ceremonial garb. But the seventh…

Maria steps in front of the petite redhead who wears black flats and a bit of a smile. She stands completely different from the others, with a sort of casual air that pique’s Maria’s curiosity.

“Are you Ms. Romanov?” she asks quietly, surveying her clipboard.

“Indeed, your Grace,” she says.

“I expected you would be taller,” Maria says.

“I didn’t put my dimensions on my resume,” Romanov says, “It didn’t seem like that kind of job.”

“Is Romanov a family name?”

Romanov’s lips quirk into a wider smile.

“It could be. Unless it’s improper to have a Romanov hired as the help?”

Very belligerent, for what is ostensibly a job interview. Maria thinks she’ll come back to Ms. Romanov.

The other applicants are entirely suitable, and boring. She takes them to the kitchen and instructs them to make an omelette and a cup of coffee. Romanov makes a perfect omelette on the first go, lovingly spiced and served with a filling of chives and heirloom mushrooms. Maria is fuly impressed, but Romanov’s coffee is terrible, so strong it coats Maria’s throat.

“Ms. Romanov, where did you learn to make coffee?” she asks after a couple of glasses of water.

“In a tank, your Grace. Is it too strong?” Romanov says. That small smile has not left her face. Maria meets her gaze and dismisses the other applicants.

“Ms. Romanov, my current butler has none of your impudence and makes a superb coffee,” she says frankly. “The other applicants are far more polite in the presence of _literal royalty_ and they have far less concerning names or cups of coffee.”

“I am aware, your Grace,” Romanov says. “Were I applying for a service position, I would have adjusted my attitude accordingly.”

“I’m sorry, you do not think this is a service position?”

“I believe it is a position better filled by a confidant than a servant,” Romanov says. “And I think you’ll come to agree. Thank you for your consideration. Maria.”

“You can leave,” Maria says shortly. Romanov turns smartly and goes.

* * *

 

“Gunther, what were you thinking, letting that woman into the interview process?” Maria asks Birgittson, who is making her coffee and breakfast for dinner. Breakfast for dinner is a rare treat these days, what with the dinners that she must attend with astonishing frequency.

“Ms. Romanov? She was formidably qualified and all of her references were effuse about her work ethic,” Birgittson says. “She seemed like a suitable companion.”

“I don’t want a companion,” Maria says. “I want a butler.”

“Well,” Birgittson says without blinking, “perhaps you will have to accept someone who’s a bit of both. Your esteemed mother came to the same compromise when she hired me.”

“You’re different,” Maria says. “I’ll miss you.”

“And I you, Madam,” Birgittson, setting the plate of eggs, crepes, and breakfast meats in front of Maria with aplomb, “but if it were me, I would hire someone else who I would miss were they to leave your service. And this entire evening you’ve spoken of nobody else except Ms. Romanov.”

“She’s not suitable,” Maria says. “I’m Grand Duchess now, I can’t have someone like that around me. Her name is _Romanov._ ”

“So she says.”

“That doesn’t make it better, Gunther!” Maria says. Birgittson laughs, and pours coffee.

“You were always a very serious child,” he says, “and your demeanor is perfect for the Duchy, and the work that you do. But you need a confident. And after all the technical things that someone of my position does, they should be able to be a friend as well. Could you imagine being friends with any of the other applicants you saw today?”

Maria spears a sausage together with fluffily scrambled eggs and considers Birgittson’s point very seriously.

In a hostel nearby, Natasha Romanov waits for something, anything. She sits at the foot of her bed, wishing she had a gun to clean and sleepless because she does not. Her cell phone is lit up with job offers that would take her everywhere. There are a few messages from old friends, too. She doesn’t answer any of them.

The four college students sharing her room at the hostel sleep soundly. She occupies herself with their protection. If they are breathing and safe in the morning, then this night has not been entirely fruitless.

Clint texts her again. _Come back,_ he says, _I’m sorry._

She deletes all the messages on her phone, just as she receives a new e-mail. It’s the from official e-mail of the Duchy of Celan, and it informs her that she’s been hired as the butler for the Grand Duchess, effective immediately. Natasha looks at the e-mail, and saves it. She is due to return to the estate tomorrow.

It will be a long night of preparation.

* * *

 

“You look like you haven’t slept,” the staid butler, Birgittson, says. Natasha is surprised. People usually don’t notice. “When you work in this household, it is imperative you have a good night’s rest behind you.”

“I will be more diligent,” Natasha says. Birgittson’s dark gaze discomfits her, but she keeps her composure.

“Madam’s day starts at 6:30 am. She goes for her run and then requires breakfast. After exercise she likes fresh berries, oatmeal and a glass of orange juice. She will retire to her study shortly after and begin her appointments at 10:00.”

“Does she need to be dressed?” Natasha asks with a small smile.

“Madam is not eight years old,” Birgittson says neutrally.

“All right, so it’s 10:30 now,” Natasha says. “So she is in meetings. When do those end?”

“3:00 sharp. Then she will have her midday meal, which is prepared by the chef,” Birgittson says, “and then she prepares for the evenings. Ms. Romanov, your day will be rather different from Madam’s.”

And it is. Birgittson runs the estate with military efficacy, guides guests to the study, and sits down to go through invitations and e-mails from fellow dignitaries.

“This is the official e-mail of the Duchy,” he says. “Madam and I have access to it, and it is vital that invitations must be parsed for her before her midday meal. Without proper screening and scheduling, she will attempt to attend every event and wear herself thin.”

“She’s addicted to work,” Natasha says, and is speared by that discomfiting look again.

“She is the ruler of a nation, and solely responsible for the lives of thousands,” Birgittson says. “In order to operate the way she does, she must have a solid estate and an impeccable butler. Her first impression of you was not promising.”

“I don’t interview well,” Natasha says with a bright smile that obviously doesn’t convince him.

“I believe you will do very well in the position, just from what Nicholas Fury’s recommendation,” he says, “but be kinder with Madam.”

That’s not something Natasha was expected to be told.

When she next meets the Grand Duchess, it is after her meetings. Birgittson follows her to the kitchen, where they all three take the midday meal, a pasta dish with bread and salad that fills Natasha to the gills.

“Birgittson, has the President returned my e-mail about the fete?” the Grand Duchess asks, pushing around the pasta on her plate. She hasn’t so much as acknowledged Natasha beyond a cursory glance

“Eat your lunch,” Birgittson says bluntly.

“The President of the United States…”

“You haven’t eaten since breakfast,” Birgittson interrupts. “So finish your meal, and drink some water. Then we can return to affairs of the State.”

The Grand Duchess makes a noncommittal sound and returns to her meal. She doesn’t ask about the President until after.

“I want my hairdresser in for this evening,” she says softly.

“Already taken care of, Madam,” Birgittson says, and hands her a tablet. “Here are your e-mails. I put the President’s on the first page, so you could find it more easily.”

“Thank you,” the Grand Duchess says. “I will be drafting e-mails in the library until my hairdresser arrives. Please get me when she does.”

She retires to the library, and Birgittson turns to Natasha.

“You will accompany her to Vienna tonight. There is a higher risk to Madam’s person than usual, but she doesn’t want to bring her guard and I’m afraid I’m rather past my prime,” he says.

“Understood,” Natasha says, bottling her panic (it’s my first day, I haven’t a thing to wear, I don’t know what cutlery I have to eat with) and nodding officiously.

“You have a fitting in the Lavender Room. I will take care of the estate’s affairs until you have suitable attire.”


	2. Chapter 2

“You’re a lot different from how I thought the new butler would be,” the American says. Natasha stands on a stool while he measures her, and the starbursts on Natasha’s shoulder and on her side are starting to burn a little.

“Nobody expected me,” Natasha says. “Not even me.”

“First day jitters, huh?” he smiles, and pushes back his blond hair. “No problem. You’ll be looking too good to be nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” Natasha says. She really isn’t, though she wishes she was more armed than the wire she keeps coiled in her jacket sleeve. “I thought there would be more of a learning track.”

“The Grand Duchess prefers for everyone to go in both feet first,” he says, and holds out a hand for her to shake. “I’m Quartermaine, Ms. Romanov. And I am going to make you beautiful for tonight.”

“Beautiful? In this uniform?” Natasha asks.

“Oh, I’ll tailor the uniform, but tonight you can wear what you like. The Vienna thing that she goes to every year is less of a formal affair and more like a party.”

“I can’t imagine _Madam_ partying,” Natasha says. Quartermaine shares her smile, and rolls a rack of dresses into view.

“She is pretty straitlaced,” he concedes, and pulls out a deep green dress. “Put this one on.”

Natasha obliges, going behind a screen to do so. When she comes out, she’s a little stunned by the woman she sees in the mirrors. The dark green sets off her skin and her hair and she looks-

“Yeah, that will work,” Quartermaine says.

“It’s too much,” Natasha says, tearing her eyes away.

“Welcome to working with royalty. Everything is too much,” Quartermaine laughs. “You look wonderful, and you know it. Let me get you matching shoes and jewelry. We have stuff on loan from every jewelry house in Europe.”

“Nothing too showy,” Natasha says. “I should look like staff, shouldn’t I?”

“You should look like someone who can accompany Madam to a party,” Quartermaine says, and gives her satin shoes that match the dress. “You should look beautiful.”

* * *

 

Maria’s hairdresser has been with her for years, and knows what she likes. In under an hour, her curls are set and the tiara is set on straight. The dress follows, a dark blue sheath with an impractical cape that goes down to the waist. Maria will not admit she enjoys the way it flutters behind her when she walks with purpose.

Her chauffeur, Ms. Morse, is ready when she emerges from the estate, and holds the door a delicately gloved hand.

“Thank you, Ms. Morse,” Maria says. “Where is Ms. Romanov?”

“Mr. Quartermaine said five minutes a moment ago, Madam,” Ms. Morse says. “We are in good time.”

Maria doesn’t like to wait, but Ms. Romanov is there within the timeframe that was given. Maria has only ever seen her in her butler’s uniform before, and if she swallows upon seeing Ms. Romanov in a full green gown with gloves and shoes to match, then she can be forgiven.

“Sorry I was late, Madam. Mr. Quartermaine thought my preparations for the evening secondary to his,” she says, and rolls up her long gloves, revealing a couple ceramic knives strapped to her forearms. “I brought a gun as well.”

“I hardly think guns will be necessary!” Maria says, blindsided once more.

“I take your protection very seriously,” Ms. Romanov says. “You have brought with you no security detail, so it is my responsibility to make sure you can enjoy the evening in safety.”

“I must insist.”

“I’m good at this, Madam,” Ms. Romanov says. “And on issues of security, I outrank you.”

“Already taking lessons from Birgittson,” Maria says. “I’m not eight.”

“If you were eight you wouldn’t be going,” Ms. Romanov says, and crosses her arms. “It is one gun, and well-hidden on my person. I will not have to discharge it, and it will not cause an incident.”

“Then why are you bringing it?”

“For my own peace of mind,” Ms. Romanov says. Maria wants to ask another question, but Ms. Romanov has already rolled up her gloves again and stony silence begins to envelope them.


	3. Chapter 3

The Prince of Wakanda is there, thank God. Maria gravitates towards T’Challa with a couple flutes of champagne, and he smiles with as much relief as she feels.

“Do you want to get out of here?” Maria asks. “The gardens are lovely this time of year.”

“That was going to be my suggestion, your Grace,” T’Challa says.

“You can drop the ‘your Grace’, T’Challa. We went to university together,” Maria says with a wide smile that feels unpracticed on her face, and they retire together to the gardens.

“Who was the woman you came in with?” T’Challa asks with a small smile.

“My new butler,” Maria says. “Very new.”

“And she is very beautiful,” T’Challa says.

“If you say so,” Maria says, and sighs. “She is, isn’t she?”

“Oh, I see,” T’Challa says, not unsympathetic. “Maria, it’s all right to…”

“No, it’s not all right,” Maria says. “It was all right in college, when I wasn’t in line, let alone _running_ Celan! I have Latveria and Belgium and the United States waiting for me to screw up…”

“It’s a party, Maria,” T’Challa says gently. “Drink your champagne. Let’s talk about other things.”

Maria nods after a moment of hesitation. They spend more time out at the gardens before they both agree it would be best to rejoin the party. Ms. Romanov is there in the corner, commingling and laughing but always alert, Maria can tell. She wonders, not for the first time, where Ms. Romanov has hidden her gun.

“Your Highness! Your Grace,” someone says, and Maria soon comes face to face with Steve Rogers. Well. Face to face is a relative term; Steve Rogers is just about five foot nothing, and confidant to one of the most powerful men in the world.

“Steven, hello!” she says. “Is President Wilson here?”

“No,” Rogers says.  “He’s still at home, I’m afraid, leaving me alone in Europe.”

“A dangerous proposition,” Maria says.

“Well,” Rogers smiles at his shadow, whose metal arm glints from across the room. “Not entirely alone.”

“Not dangerous for you, Steven,” T’Challa says. “I’m sure the Grand Duchess remembers better than me the mess you made in Western Europe before you were called back to the White House.”

Rogers laughs, and takes a flute of champagne.

“Barnes is also my chaperone,” he says. “No international incidents this time.”

“I’ll believe it when you’re on your plane back to Washington,” Maria says.

“No promises, then,” Rogers grins, just as Barnes appears by his side. “What’s happening, Buck?”

“We have to go,” Barnes mutters, glancing at Maria, “now.”

“What do you mean?” Rogers asks. “The party’s barely started. Give it a rest.”

“There’s someone here who doesn’t belong,” Barnes says.

“Is this a matter of interest for everyone here, Sergeant?” Rogers says, brow furrowing, “because it sure sounds like it.”

“It concerns me, you, and her,” Barnes says, gestures to Maria. Rogers turns to Maria, eyebrows arching.

“My butler is new,” Maria explains. “Not on the list.”  
“That’s a security risk,” Barnes says. “Ma’am.”

“It was not my intention to make you nervous,” Maria says.

Rogers and Barnes exchange a glance, and Rogers frowns, giving T’Challa his champagne.

“I’m afraid I do have to go,” he says apologetically. “I hope we meet again, Highness, your Grace.”

“It was a pleasure to see you again,” T’Challa says, and when the two Americans are gone, he sighs. “I still can’t believe the Winter Soldier is his attaché.”

“He was tried, T’Challa,” Maria says. “And he was found innocent.”

“We both know that’s not the case,” T’Challa frowns. “At the very least, you must admit that such an arrangement is distasteful.”

“Yes, well,” Maria says. “Americans. Let’s get another drink. I feel like a beer.”

Ms. Romanov drifts closer to Maria as she and T’Challa stand by the bar, nursing their beers. Her composure is steady, but she looks nervous, the same kind of nervous Barnes was. Maria frowns.

“Is everything all right?” she asks.

“Yes,” Ms. Romanov says curtly. “I trust you are enjoying the evening?”

“I am,” Maria assures. “Are you at least trying?”

“No, I’m working,” Ms. Romanov says softly. “Don’t worry about me, Madam.”

Maria wants to say more, but T’Challa is drifting towards members of the Japanese Diet, and she follows instead.

* * *

  
“I didn’t think I would see you here,” Natasha says to the Winter Soldier. “I’m not here for you, I swear.”

“Then what the hell are you doing here, Natalia?” he says, brow furrowing. “Because last time I checked…”

“I’m here for the same reason you are,” Natasha says, “I’m protecting someone.”

The Winter Soldier, _James,_ looks over to where she’s looking, at the Grand Duchess, and nods.

“I believe you,” he says. “But I have to ask you why.”

Natasha swallows, looks down, and they both know that she has no idea. He sighs.

“You need to stop the screaming in your head,” he says. “Thought you would turn over a new leaf, get into another business. But Natalia, the truth is, if you don’t tell them, about _everything;_ every life you’ve taken, every lie you’ve told, the screaming won’t stop.”

“You don’t know what’s going on in my head,” Natasha says. “And I’ve seen how they look at you, how they’re disgusted and afraid of you. I want to start fresh, not have what I did under duress hanging over me no matter what I do.”

“Then you haven’t changed,” James says, “And I don’t think you will.”

He starts to leave, is stopped by her hand on his metal one.

“Don’t tell,” she says. “Please. Let me… let me have this.”

He looks at her, and then shakes free of her grasp.


End file.
